Bewitched
Years ago, the plum found its way to me;
It wore this charming smell of eternity
So I held its hand, of which I then never let go.
Its touch fanned the flames of a growing ego
Within me; what a gentle slope to propel a child
From her dear burrow down onto the wild!
But the plum carried a bag filled up with stories
Whom essence it urged the poor lamb to seize
Which, to the juvenile youth, sounds like heaven
Don’t you think? An elope; and she was just eleven!
The sane, and the sound, and the strong, and the smart
Would tamper this mad wheel. But the fool is fond of art
Too much, perhaps. Who told her then about the fate
That is paving the way of the overly passionate?
Voices in the night started whispering
Anthems of glory, words that were forming
A vow. In restless dreams, she’d picture a ring
She’d find on her bed sheet the next morning.
Wrapped in silence, she begged for noise
Why, who the hell was replacing my toys?
But the frustration came from elsewhere:
I was sensing a power I yet could not bear.
Consumed by the rule of this new tyrant
Her appetite for knowledge then grew violent;
At times, a book in her hands would feel like rocks
I’d then hold a pen and join the equinox
In its ethereal mourning.
In the shallows of a scroll, I let her breath sink
When tears fail at their job, her eyes turn to cold ink.
